


I'll Follow You Into The Dark

by lafitte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, DWBB2017, Dean Winchester Big Bang, DeanCas - Freeform, M/M, alcoholism tw, bobby is done with everyone's shit, canon-divergent from 1x01, dean and cas are angsty babies, dean loves to hate himself :)))), depression tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-05 02:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10295120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafitte/pseuds/lafitte
Summary: When his Dad disappears, Dean spends the first few months tracking down all the places his Dad visited right before he fell off the grid. While rolling through one such town he comes across Castiel Novak, one of the few good friends he had in his childhood. Turns out, after the death of his foster mom Naomi due to ‘exceptional circumstances’, Cas has become a hunter too, one who specializes in finding and killing demons.Dean has been planning to drag Sam back into the game if their Dad is gone for too long, but since he’s already so hesitant about it, will Castiel give him an excuse to put off telling Sam the truth? Or does he know more that he shows?Then there's Crowley, the only one who seems to have the answers Dean's been waiting for all his life.Between hunting alone and trying to find his Dad, Dean finds himself thrown in an unlikely partnership, confronting things he's been trying to avoid for a long time, and at war with himself. He just hopes someone's got his back.





	1. [ 1: of lonely boys in lonely motels  ]

There is something about the open road that clears Dean’s mind like nothing else. Not even his recent phone conversation with Sammy makes him feel at rest nowadays- at least, not in the way driving the Impala on an empty stretch of road does. Sam is fine, and doing good in his classes, and that is the best piece of news Dean has heard all week- hell, the entire month. Dean had asked Sam about his girlfriend, and he had told him how happy they were; he might have teased him a bit too, but hey, he’s happy for the kid.

At that moment, Dean had been en route to Stanford to pick him up and help him find John. But when he heard the smile in Sam’s voice, he turned around. He couldn’t do it.

John’s been missing for over two months and Dean still hasn’t told Sam. Only Bobby knows, and the few hunters that Dean hopes John might reach out to. Bobby was skeptical about not telling Sam, but understood why Dean chose not to. However much Dean likes the feeling of being in the Impala, nothing could ever beat the feeling of cooking meals for Sam, keeping him safe and well-fed and as happy as possible, and generally bossing him around. Dean feels torn, having to travel and hunt and look for his Dad alone, but pulling Sam into it would disrupt the little shred of normalcy that he has managed to find in his life. Dean can do this alone. He will do this alone. He’s got Bobby to help him out. He can do this.

He misses Sam, there's no doubt about that, but he’s putting his brother first- he’s doing what he’s been doing for twenty odd years- despite the fact that with John in the wind, Dean feels terribly lonely. The kind of life that his Dad made him grow up in...Dean isn’t sure he would’ve chosen it- that is, if he’d ever had a choice. Dean’s good at suppressing such feelings, because, well, that’s what he does. Anyway, if he doesn’t take care of his family, who will?  
Dean tries to ignore the small voice in his head which keeps telling him that it’s been two months since John contacted anyone. In the hunting life, being off the grid for that long is a good sign to start digging a grave. He feels compelled to just give up, pretend his Dad never left him and Sammy; if anyone asks, he can tell them John’s dead. He can settle down in some out-of-the-way old country town where no one will come looking for him and take up a job as a mechanic; maybe even find a girl, have a family of his own. They could have this little house--  
He stops himself. Just the thought of John being dead makes his stomach lurch. Instinct tells him John’s alive, and he trusts his gut. If John’s alive, then it’s his duty to find him. A small part of Dean speaks up, telling him that even if Dean had escaped and made a new life for himself, his loyalty to John wouldn’t have let him live with it. Dean ignores the voice.

He pulls up into a typical, shady, broken-neon-sign motel, and almost asks for two queens, out of habit- but corrects himself and gets a king size instead.

Dean doesn’t like to think about how he’s quite comfortable hunting and living alone. He’s settled into the same routine, with the exception of paying for only one person. He still doesn’t take care of himself half as much as he looks after Baby, and he still drinks himself to sleep every night to wake up from silent nightmares; he still feels as if there’s a chunk of himself missing, somewhere in the wind. It’s almost as if his Dad had never been around. Some part of that is true, though; John wasn’t always around during his and Sam’s childhood and ever since Sam went to Stanford the interaction between them had been to a bare minimum, almost as if he was hunting monsters across the country and looking for the thing that killed his Mom with a complete stranger. Sometimes Dean thinks that the only reason John even kept him around was for an extra pair of hands. He is a damn fine hunter, and probably never really needed Dean’s help. The fact that he’s gone missing without bothering to tell his own son has done nothing to curb the gnawing suspicion in Dean’s mind that John had finally decided that he doesn’t need Dean.  
The motel clock reads half past three when Dean steps in, his lungs long used to the smell of alcohol, sweat and stale dreams. He sighs and collapses on the bed.

***

Dean wakes up around seven. He groans, knowing that he wouldn’t mind a few more hours of sleep (or maybe a whole day- better, the rest of his life) but he knows what happens when he tries to sleep longer than his body is accustomed to.  
After a few cups of coffee and a burger in his stomach, he’s got his FBI Agent suit on and a fake badge resting in his inner pocket as he makes his way to the police station.

According to Bobby, a hunter said that he had seen John the last time he’d been in town on a hunt. John had left a few hours later, and the hunter hadn’t talked to him a lot- not that he really wanted to. There are quite a few hunters out there who are scared of John and even more of those who disapprove of him. The fact that he’s a good hunter doesn’t exactly make him the most popular one in town, and John’s place on the popularity charts doesn’t make things easier for Dean either. Bar fights, insults, pushes and shoves, a few bottles thrown at him along with cusses at his Dad are things he has learned how to handle now. Maybe, Dean will have more peaceful visits to bars now, especially those frequented by hunters--  
He pauses, and corrects himself. John won't be gone long enough for him to have peaceful visits to the bar, right? He's gonna find the man and demand some answers.

He makes his way to the local PD. As he had secretly expected, the Sheriff does not remember much about the man matching John’s description. Same old, same old. He does say something about him being the second FBI Agent to turn up that morning, though. Dean makes a few more inquires and figures that another hunter is in town. He makes his way back to the Impala.

He wanders about, hitting up local bars, hoping- for the first time- that John might've made a big enough scene for someone to remember him; and yeah, maybe he drinks a few drinks at each bar and is slightly tipsy before it's even time for lunch, but who cares? Not Dean, not John. Maybe Bobby, but he's too far away for Dean to worry about that. By the time it's time for lunch, Dean is sitting in the Impala with a cheeseburger in one hand, and a big, fat load of nothing to account for John's disappearance. The cheeseburger tastes salty.

He looks through the 'strange cases', looking for something to catch his eye. Possible poltergeist cases, some of them the good old cock and bull stories and oh, here's one: Mother Dies In Mysterious Fire In Baby's Nursery, Child Unhurt. Dean sits up, and quickly scans through the article.

> _"On the night of September 13, a mysterious fire broke out in the apartment of Mr. Scott situated on the 11th floor of Jupiter Apartments, claiming his wife's life. Fortunately, his 6-month old son was unhurt, and the fire extinguished before it could spread to any other part of the building. Mr. Scott said in his statement to the police that he had gone up to check on James, their son, when he was shocked to discover an intruder in the baby's nursery. He tried to confront him, but the intruder barely flicked his wrist and suddenly Mr. Scott was pushed against the wall, unable to move. It was at this moment, Mr. Scott said, that his wife came into the room. The intruder turned around to see her, and Mr. Scott claimed that while the intruder had pretty ordinary, average features, he had yellow eyes. Mr. Scott screamed for help when out of nowhere a deep wound began to form on his wife's stomach and she flew up and collided with the ceiling. A fire erupted around her and Mr. Scott, finding himself able to move and the intruder gone, quickly grabbed his two children and ran out. The police are still trying to determine how much of this story is true since Mr. Scott was known to be a raging alcoholic sometimes, and investigations are underway…."_

Dean doesn't know when he started breathing heavily, but it takes him several minutes to calm down and force his lunch back down his throat, all those drinks suddenly making him nauseous. He looks around, wondering what to do. It's sunny outside, with clouds starting to form. His Baby's standing outside the café from where he got his burger, and the street is pretty much empty save for a punk sitting on a motorcycle a few steps from where Dean's car is standing, eyes seemingly fixated on the vehicle ahead of him. Dean tries to hold his gaze in the rearview mirror, but gives up. The kid's probably checking out his car anyway, not him. He looks back down at the article he has just read. John must've come here because he'd heard about this. There is no other explanation. But if he had found a case just like his, why didn't he try to contact Dean? The case is important, he wouldn't have left Dean out of this. He decides to find out on his own.


	2. [ 2: of demons ]

Mr. Scott is a middle aged man, with an average build and a bit of a pudgy belly. His eyes are red and Dean doesn’t know which one of them the smell of liquor is coming from; maybe both. The conversation is short and full of near outbursts of rage from both parties. Dean can't help it, the guy's being a dick. He refuses to talk much, saying he's already told the police everything, and that everyone thinks he's either crazy or lying, blah, blah, blah. Dean gets only two useful sentences out of him- one, "Yes, I might've smelt sulfur, but I'm not sure. How does that matter again?" and two, "If it was going to take 3 FBI agents to question me, couldn't you guys have come together? Why's the FBI so interested anyway?" But before Dean can ask more, Mr. Scott threatens Dean to get the fuck out before he gets his ass kicked. Dean doubts the man could defeat him in a thumb fight, but obliges. He knows he isn't gonna get any more answers.         

 

Dean's brain hasn't felt this active since his Dad left . He finally has something- what, he doesn't know, but it's something, and it's better than the bupkus he's been getting for the past two months. He gets into his car and dials up Bobby.

 

"Hey Bobby, yeah I'm good- listen, what did Dad tell you about his last case before he disappeared?"

 

"Um, vampire nest in Denver, Colorado, where the hunter saw him too; that's why I sent you there. Why?"

 

"Bobby, I don't think he was hunting a vampire nest." He is about to say more when, in his side-view

mirror, he notices the same guy he had seen in the afternoon, leaning against his bike, trying to appear nonchalant. Dean frowns.

 

"You gonna spill the beans or not?"

 

"Bobby, I gotta call you back. I think I'm being followed."

 

Dean hangs up, a plan already forming in his mind. He starts the car and slowly pulls out of Jupiter Apartments' parking lot, and makes his way in the direction opposite to that of his hotel. He drives at his normal speed, and after turning a few corners he's sure the guy is following. He isn't very good, but good enough. Dean drives on till he reaches a deserted road, and then sporadically hits the breaks to show as if the car isn't working. He stops the car and gets out. It's a warm night, and a crescent moon makes its way through the clouds. The streetlights are harsh and bright, and in their light Dean can make out the silhouette of his follower. He's ditched his bike and is just slipping into an alley when Dean notices him. He goes to the front of the car and opens her up, pretending to figure out what is wrong. Either he would try to ambush Dean, since he's all alone; or he would simply observe- that itself would give Dean an idea of whether someone wants him dead or not. If not, they're probably waiting for him to lead them to John. After all, John has quite a history with demons. Dean waits for a few minutes, tinkering around with his car, his ears constantly trying to pick up any sounds. Sure enough, a few seconds later he hears a voice.

 

"You need some help there, buddy?"

 

Dean puts on his best I'm-going-to-charm-your-pants-off smile. He's done this before, with girls and guys. It makes for a handy good cop tactic when John's busy being the bad cop. He's even told Dean that his flirting skills were a pretty great help; which, yes, did surprise Dean a bit.

 

"Oh, it'd be great if you can help me out, man."

 

The guy nods and starts playing with the parts that Dean _ just added last week, what the fuck _ , he can't watch this. He's _ demolishing _ his car, his scared Baby,  _ ugh.  _ Of all the things he has been desperate enough to do while on a hunt, this is the worst.

 

"Hey, it's okay if I grab us a beer from the back? It's the least I can do to thank you."

 

The guy looks up, considering the offer, then nods. Dean quickly opens up the trunk and takes out a silver knife and some rock salt, and holy water, just in case. He finds some beer in the backseat and is about to grab it when he realizes that he can't hear anything. He stills. There's none of the sounds that should be audible if someone had been fixing a car- or, at least, pretending to fix a car.

 

"Put the gun down, it won't work."

 

Dean whips around and points the gun at his follower, and shoots. To hell with finding answers, he needs to be alive to do that. The silver bullet simply lodges itself in his shoulder, and he jerks back a bit from the impact. Dean spots no other reaction from him, and the bullet stays where it is. He tries to tackle him into the ground and drive a stake through his heart but he simply puts out his hand and suddenly Dean is fixed against the hood of the Impala. The car groans under his weight. He thinks he sees his attacker's eyes flash.

 

Crap. Eyes that change color is never a good sign. Dean prays to anyone above who may be listening _. Please don't be a demon. Please don't be a demon please don't be a- _

His eyes turn red, spreading from the corners to the center of his eyes. Dean is so, so screwed.

**_***_ **

"Now, now, how can I kill you when you're all pretty like this?" he sneers, and Dean notices a remarkable change in his accent as he's lifted by the neck. He's running out of air and the demon's hand feels like lead against his neck. His lungs are on fire; his body feels heavy. Is this how he's going to die? Strangled by a demon? He wonders what his Dad would make of that. It's always been one of his theories that Mary was killed by a demon.

"He's right there, you know. Mary Winchester was killed by a demon." the voice seems far away.

Dean's eyes fly open. He's fading in and out of consciousness.

 

"Wha-?" he manages to choke. The demon seems to realize that he's very close to killing Dean, and mutters something that sounds like: "Oh, right, you're not a demon. You can actually  _ be  _ strangled to death," before letting go. Dean falls to the ground, a hand on his neck, taking in greedy gulps of oxygen.

The demon vanishes, and seconds later his place is taken by a middle aged man. Dean sizes him from the feet up: shiny black shoes, a tailored, sharp black suit, complete with a red tie. He’s balding, and Dean doubts he would’ve taken him seriously in any other circumstances, but there’s a purely  _ wicked  _ look in his eyes that sends shivers down his spine. Yeah, this one’s definitely a demon.

 

“Name’s Crowley.” he says, in the same preposterous and annoyingly patronizing accent. “The one who tried to strangle you a few seconds ago. Hello.”

 

He holds out his hand. Dean looks at it, trying to melt it with his glare; he doesn’t like being in the inferior position. Crowley sighs and picks him up by the collar of his shirt. His brain still reeling from almost dying, Dean lets himself be picked up. Once he’s sure he’s not going to collapse, and that he can still speak, the first words that come out his genius mouth are:

 

“You’re Scottish. Your breath smells funny.”

 

Dean is about ready to drop himself into Hell once he realizes what he’s said. Crowley raises his eyebrows.

 

“Please tell me you’re not as dumb as you are pretty, Winchester. I expect better from you. Now, I know you’re bursting with questions, and since I’m so nice, I’ll answer the ones I want to. So how about you invite me for a ride?”


	3. [ 3: of young hearts and old devils ]

To state the obvious, Dean is more accustomed to having demons in the trunk of his car, preferably unconscious, and is not- to say the least- used to having demons sitting in the passenger seat, right next to him, occasionally looking at him sideways and quirking thier eyebrows as he stares out onto the dark road.

 

There's no doubt about it. This universe is out to get him in the most agonizing way possible _. Maybe it's karma, maybe it's capital-G God, who knows? I've made enough mistakes in my life _ ; and do not even get him started on the million ways this skunk from Hell has tainted his beloved Baby just by being in contact with it. John is gonna be so pissed.

 

"Where are we going?" he finally asks, the silence becoming a bit too much for him.

 

"One of my safe-houses." Crowley says, as if oblivious to the fact that they've been driving in the middle of nowhere for almost an hour now; Dean would put their location somewhere on the Colorado- Nebraska border by now.

 

"Why are we going there?"

 

"I'm wanted by someone very dangerous."

 

"Demon?"

 

"To say the least about him, yeah."

 

Dean nods, and his grip on his steering wheel definitely does not tighten.

 

"Who's to say this is even remotely a good idea?"

 

"Not me, because it isn't." Crowley says, and turns to look him in the eye. "But it is the best shot you got at finding your Daddy. Also, it was either this or me driving this beautiful toy," and there are so many things wrong with the last sentence that Dean doesn't know what to say.

 

"You said something about answers." he finally manages to spit out. Crowley smiles-no, smirks- in a feral way that tells Dean he has been waiting for him to ask that. There is pause while he wipes some invisible dust off of his pant leg.

 

"I know who killed your mother."

 

Dean swerves the car and pumps the brakes.

 

"And I can help you get revenge."

**_***_ **

Dean has no idea for how long he drives. He just does. Shifts to autopilot and drives.

 

He doesn't want to think but it's not like he has any other choice. The Impala's constant roar as he pushes the speed limit calms him down a little. Crowley is surprisingly silent, except to give directions every now and then. He keeps looking at Dean, but he couldn’t really care less right now.

 

Dean was four years old when he lost his mother. He was four years old when he lost his dad. He was four years old when he lost his childhood-- except, only one of the above actually died. The rest burned down as collateral damage, sorrow that has been following him like a dark shadow ever since. John's not here.  _ What would he have done? _ Dean asks himself. He wouldn't have talked to a demon on account of principle. But when it's a matter of Mary, Dean doubts John knows anything about principles or morals. His dad's become a machine, and Dean can't believe he's only coming to terms with it now, sitting in a car with a demon in the place Sammy or John used to sit, driving to god knows where. John, John, John. The demon was talking about Mary, but it's John Dean can't stop thinking about. He thinks his phone rings at one point of time, but he tones it out.

 

"Earth to Dean." Crowley finally says.

 

Dean blinks and looks around. They were in the parking lot of a bar, not too shady but not too high class either- it's definitely better than the kind he's used to.

 

"What're we doing here?" he asks.

 

"This is the safe-house." Crowley says. Dean raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

 

It's warm inside and Dean's grateful for that. August is coming to an end and it's getting chilly. A part of Dean is glad; fall always suited him.

 

One look around and it seems like a normal bar, but Dean knows whose pockets are hiding which weapons. He suspects one of them is even carrying a sword, which is just impressive.

 

"They're all demons. Supporters, you might say."

 

"Supporters of what?"

 

"We'll get to that." Crowley says, dismissing the topic with a wave and a nod to the bartender. He orders a scotch, "the way I like it," and Dean asks for a whiskey, any kind, no need for a glass. A drink is exactly what he needs. He has too many questions right now, a lot of which he knows Crowley won't answer. His skin feels on fire already, the adrenaline is pumping in his veins; he's sitting in a room full of demons, and he's not fighting any of them. His life is not in immediate peril _. What the fuck. This is suicidal. Suicidal is what I've been doing for a long time. _

 

Dean really, really doesn't want to think right now. The bartender slides a bottle his way and he drinks it without even bothering to check the label. The taste of numbness burning its way down his throat is the only familiar thing he has felt in the past 24 hours.

 

Even without the alcohol, Dean feels strangely out of touch with his surroundings. The situation's out of his control and he's not freaking out because of that.

 

"I think it's called disassociation."

 

"Hmm. Huh?"

 

"A feeling of detachment." Crowley further offers. Deans comes a little to his senses.

 

"I'm not disassoci-whatever."

 

"Are you in shock?" he asks out of nowhere.

 

"What? No! I'm not talking about my feelings to a fucking demonic low-life."

 

"This low-life is going to be future king of hell."

 

For the first time, Dean turns and looks at Crowley. Really looks. Then he bursts out laughing, which attracts the attention of a few nearby demons. Crowley frowns and is about to protest but Dean raises a hand. He sighs.

 

"We'll talk about your childhood dreams later. First, let's talk business."

Crowley smirks.

  
"Now, that's my specialty."


	4. [ 4: of the end of the world ]

"What do you want from me?" is the first thing Dean asks. His bottle of whiskey is finished and long forgotten.

 

"In simple words: help." Crowley says.

 

"How?"

 

"There's something coming. Something big, something bad. I need you to stop it."

 

“How big, how bad?”

 

“Apocalypse big, Lucifer bad.”

 

Dean laughs for the second time that night. This Crowley has a twisted sense of humor, he’ll give him that.

 

“Way above my pay-grade, buddy. That kinda stuff only exists in, like, Biblical stories.”

 

“Maybe you should ask your father about that, Dean.”

 

“What do you mean? What does Dad--”

 

“Stop right there, boy.” Crowley says, holding up his hand. He leans in,  _ way  _ into Dean’s personal space.

 

“Answers come at a price.” he finishes.

 

“So, what? You need me to save the world now or some shit? Listen buddy, I ain’t some sort of hero-”

 

“Oh, get that self-righteous pole out of your ass, Winchester! The only reason I’m helping you is because you’re pretty. Don’t make me regret it.” He says, and snaps his fingers.  

 

Dean finds himself in his car in the parking lot of the bar. He gasps, not used to being...demon-mojo-ed before and it takes him a few minutes to compose himself. He thought he’d get some answers, but he’s only left with more questions.

 

He calls his dad. After two long voicemails detailing everything that’s happened in the past few hours, he let’s his finger hover over Sam’s contact number. He doesn’t call.

 

He finds a voicemail from Bobby, and one from an unknown number: 666. Well, nothing ‘unknown’ about that one. He listens to Bobby scream at him about not checking in and then leaves a quick message apologizing and saying that he’d explain it all in person when he gets back his house, and tells him to dig up everything he can on the goddamn Biblical apocalypse.

 

Crowley’s message is a bit more nerve-wracking.

 

“Dean. I know this a lot to take in, but if you stop being a fucking  _ cry baby for one second,  _ you’d realize that my proposition is extremely profitable for both of us. I’m not asking you to go about saving the world. I am asking you to save yourself and the people you give a damn about _.  _ You have the most to lose here, Dean:  _ everything _ . Call me when you’ve got all your teenage PMS drama settled down, and we’ll talk.”

**_***_ **

“Dean, what the hell?!”

 

“Bobby, I’m sorry, look I can exp-”

 

“Ain’t no explanation you can give for hanging up on me with the words ‘I’m being followed’ and then not contacting me for one whole night! I thought you were half dead if not burned alive already!”

 

_ Well, on an emotional level... _ But Dean keeps his thoughts to himself.

 

It takes a while for Bobby to calm down, but he eventually does. Dean waits it out- he’s used to being berated for risking his life because it inconvenienced someone else. He knows Bobby loves him and even tries to be a better father John ever was-  _ is, goddamnit -  _ but Dean cannot, for the life of him, figure out why so many people  _ love  _ him but don’t  _ understand  _ him. Maybe he’s just a bit tough to get used to.

 

They sit in Bobby’s library, and Bobby finally sighs, gets up, and gets a beer for each of them. Dean decides not to tell him that he’s already had a six pack on the way to his house. He doesn’t tell Bobby that he drinks alcohol more than he drinks water, but his throat still aches. He doesn’t tell Bobby that he called Sammy at one in the morning because he just wanted someone to talk to, to know that he was still  _ here,  _ still breathing, still trying. Sam was worried, but Dean managed to pass it off as a post-hunt nightmare and his incessant need to know that his brother is okay.

 

Bobby sits down on his desk, the wooden desk and he and Dean spent many hours building together.

 

They‘re silent for a while, as Dean drinks in the room. It was Sam’s favorite place growing up.

 

“You should talk to Sammy.” Dean says. Bobby looks at him, and leans forward.

 

“Dean. Talk to me.”

  
So Dean talks. He tells Bobby about Crowley and what he said to him. He tells him about the case in Denver that he needs to get back to. He tells him about the voicemail his Dad left for him in response to his voicemails, saying: “Dean...something big is starting to happen...I need to try and figure out what’s going on. It may...be very careful, Dean. We’re all in danger.”


	5. [ 5: of deathly sweet nightmares ]

_ Dean’s a child, not older than ten, and he’s been holding a rifle as long as his hand while Sammy sleeps. It’s been half an hour and he’s tired. Dean knows Sammy’s schedule by heart so he doesn’t expect him to wake up for at least another hour, and he’s thirsty. Dad left a few extra cents because he was a good boy last time.  _ You would’ve made a damn good soldier,  _ Dad had said, and Dean had beamed at him. It won’t take him more than five minutes to run to motel’s cafe and grab a Coke. But...But Dad had told him to take care of Sammy. Dean bit his bottom lip and listened to the ticking of the clock in the silence. He digs one hand in his pocket and feels the coins moving between his fingers. He likes the sound they make. He sets the rifle down, as silent as possible, and looks at Sammy’s sleeping face. He shuts the door, locks it, as quietly and stealthily as he had been taught. It feels too much like going behind his Dad’s back. _

_ His throat hurts and his hands are red. A dented soft drink can lies on the ground. Dean looks up and sees a grey sky, black smoke everywhere- people are shouting. They’re shouting for him. _

Sammy,  _ he thinks, and tries to run back to the motel room as fast as possible, but there are corpses in the way. Corpses that won’t stop bleeding. _

_ He throws open the door and finds his Dad standing over Sammy’s sleeping figure. _

Dad. Thank god. I’m sorr- _ he begins to say, but his Dad turns around. Dean senses, rather than sees, the entire room go dark and he feels like he’s falling through an abyss. _

_ That’s not his Dad. His Dad doesn’t have yellow eyes. _

_ His throat hurts and his hands are red, and he’s strangling his brother. Dean remembers this day- the day Sam had left. But this is not how it happened. He tries to stop, but his body doesn’t feel like his. _

You knew this day was coming, Lucifer, _Dean hears himself say, except it’s not him, that’s not his voice._ _He just wants it to stop._

You knew this day was coming.  

_From somewhere behind him Crowley says_ I told you so. I told you you’d lose everything. _His throat aches and his hands are red, and now they’re around his own neck._ _John’s voice rings through his head,_ This is all your fault. All your fault. You did this, Dean. It’s all your---

 

Dean wakes up panting, a sob caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. The clock reads 3:03 AM. He stumbles downstairs and opens up a bottle of whiskey.

He passes out on the couch just before sunrise.


	6. [ 6: of silent prayers ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important: there might be some discrepancies in this chapter because i first used gendered pronouns for demons, but later decided to use "it" instead, because i consider demons, like angels, to be genderless; especially since demons are canonically souls that have been perverted by their time in hell. i will be coming back to edit this chapter :) sorry for the inconvenience!

“Dean, have you lost your goddamn  _ mind _ ? Whatever happened to us ‘talking about this’ and ‘sorting this out’ and ‘figuring this mess out’?”

 

“Bobby, apocalypse or not, I still have a case to solve. I’m not leaving a hunt midway. Plus, how much do we know anyway? This case is the last thing connecting me to Dad’s disappearance, I need to check it out.”

 

“Yeah well there’s a bigger problem-”

 

“I’m hanging from my last strings, for God’s sake! Let me have this,” he starts, and then realizes the numerous way that sentence could end.  _ Let me have one more day with my baby brother before he went to college and ‘grew up’. Let me have one more day with my father so I can find the courage to ask the questions that have plagued me for so many years. Let me have one more day with mom. Let me have just one more day. _

 

He looks around the room, trying to find words for what he wants to say. He finally settles on a small, desperate, “Please.”

 

He looks anywhere but where Bobby is sitting, breakfast forgotten. Dean knows when he fell asleep on the couch he hadn’t had a blanket on him. He knows he smells like a late night affair with whiskey. He knows he looks like he is trying to run from so many nightmares that he’s lost track which ones are real.

But Bobby doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t venture to tell.

 

“Okay. But you’re not going alone.”

 

Dean’s about to protest but Bobby raises a hand to silence him.

 

“Look, I get the whole part about wanting to find your Dad and all, but Dean, I’ve seen you consume nothing but alcohol and burgers the past few days. You haven’t slept more than four hours, even after you got here. Hell, you didn’t even complain about the shower pressure! Do I need to spell it out? I’m worried about you, son. You look like you’re drowning in yourself.”

Dean almost shouts,  _ Yes Bobby, I have been feeling like that a lot recently, thank you for noticing;  _ but he keeps his mouth shut and does that thing he’s good at: obeying people whom he calls “father-figures”.

“I have some work to finish up on Baby. We’ll set out tomorrow morning.” he says, and moves out before Bobby has a chance to reply.

**_***_ **

He works on the car longer and more than he really needs to, and it’s almost sundown by the time he gets out from underneath the car, and realizes that he’s dying from thirst. He looks in the backseat and finds a long forgotten, half empty bottle of bourbon- he downs it in one go. Standing against the Impala’s hood, he watches the sun disappear behind long rows of old, rusted cars. Dean compares it to how his life feels like right now: there is darkness looming beyond the horizon and all he can do is wait for it to show up.

He looks at his hands. They’re greasy and there’s dirt under his fingernails; he can feel where his fingers are bent at odd angles from when he got his knuckles bloody in fights. But Dean doesn’t really notice that. All he sees is that his hands are empty. He doesn’t like it.

He gets up and looks around the salvage yard and picks up odd pieces of scrap metal. Finds screws that aren’t rusted to hell. A bent hemispherical piece becomes the head, a box-like figure for the chest. It’s dented where Dean imagines the heart should be, but there’s nothing he can do about that. He finds a ring and laughs as he fixes the halo on the head. It ends up looking a bit tilted, but he finds it cute. Two triangular pieces of glass are carefully affixed at the back to look like wings.

Dean hangs it on the rearview mirror and traces his finger along it, feeling every scratch and dent as if they were parts of him.

“Angels are watching over me,” he says to himself, wanting so desperately to believe it.

He looks down at his hands. They’re bloody.


	7. [ 7: of flashbacks ]

Dean tries to open his eyes but his head hurts too much. It only takes him a few seconds to realize that he’s tied down and he goes completely still, hoping he hasn’t given away that he’s awake. He listens intently. The room he’s in seems empty save one person- or creature, more likely- who occasionally shuffles its feet and seems to be smoking a cigarette. Dean tries not to think about the smell of rotting flesh in the room.

He tries to recall how he got here. The last thing he remembers is hanging the metallic angel in his car. The rest is flashes- of light, of dark, of a long empty road and his car’s headlights. A window that he’s never seen before. A ceiling on fire. Dean’s breath catches in his throat. His head starts to swim and he almost lets out a low groan.

He hurts in a lot of other places. One of his feet feels numb, the other has dry blood soaking through his jeans, making it itchy. His arms hurt all over, and he can feel the bruises from his chest down to his stomach. He decides to focus on keeping his breathing even, which is when his two broken ribs drop in to say hello. Dean curses silently. Another set of feet shuffle into the room.

“He still out?”

“Yeah.”

“Alistair’s getting impatient. Wake him up somehow.”

“But--”

“Shut up and do what you’re told to do.”

The first guy sighs and moves forward. Dean hears the sound of a rifle poking right into his broken ribs before he actually feels it. He groans and pretend to wake up and look around. The first thing he sees is the black eyes of his bodyguard.

Dean doesn’t even have the strength to whisper “Goddamn demons,” to himself anymore.

“Been waiting for you, sleeping beauty,” the demon says as he roughly unties Dean.

Dean is pulled up and forced to walk on his own, and he surprises himself by staying upright. It feels like one of his feet is sprained. His jeans scratch against his dry skin as he walks.

“Where am I?” he asks, as they are about to reach the door.

“Don’t ask questions, dumbass.” is the reply, and the demon reaches to hit him with his rifle. Dean grabs hold of it and twists the demon’s arm behind his back, takes it from his grip and hits him in the head. The demon falls and Dean shoots him in the chest as many times as he can while backing away. Before the demon could get back up he quickly runs out and bolts the door. He looks around, and thinks he’s in some kind of attic.

He leans against the door, trying to breathe through the pain. His chest aches every time he tries to inhale and his knees are shaking; his vision is starting to get blurry. A small gasp escapes him as he hears the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs.

His vision still not clear, he looks around as best as he can. There is a window with no glass on one side, and on the opposite side of the small room lies a mess of burnt furniture. Dean begins to move.

The demon is muttering something to himself as he grunts and steps into the room. He looks at the bolted door, frowns, and then rushes in. After some scuffling both demons step out, and frantically look around. They move towards the window and glance out.  
Behind them, Dean runs into them carrying a wooden plank, sending them toppling. He doesn’t wait to watch them crash on the ground outside; there’s a ringing in his ears and he’s finding it hard to concentrate. He gasps and tries to grab hold of the windowpane and steady himself--- when suddenly the world seems to shift into bright focus. The ringing intensifies. Cold blood runs down his palm and wrist, he realizes, from where he cut himself on some stray glass.

_Glass. Glass wings. Blood. Dean remembers his hands were bloody as he stepped back into Bobby’s house. He’s wiping his feet at the door when he hears Bobby on the phone: “What do you mean Sam is not safe?”_  
_Dean is out of the house before he knows it._

_He remembers driving to Stanford at breakneck speed, not pausing to sleep or eat until absolutely necessary. Bobby’s left him over a dozen messages but he doesn’t care. Sam is not safe plays on repeat in his brain. He calls him._

_“Sammy, are you okay?”_

_“Dean, wh- yeah, I’m fine, why?”_

_“Are you sure? No signs of anything fishy?”_

_“Yeah Dean, I’m sure. I don’t hunt anymore, but I’m still a hunter. I stay alert. What is this about?”_

_“Just checking in. I’ve been dealing with some rough cases recently and not having seen you for so long made me itchy; by the way, I’m on my way to Stanford.”_

_“Right now? Is- is everything okay? Is it Dad?” he asks, his voice wary. He seems on edge._

_“No, just wanted to meet my little bro, is that bad nowadays? Are you afraid it’ll make you look less cool?” Dean forces a chuckle and hopes that all these years of faking happiness around Sammy would work in his favor. Sam tells him the address of the apartment he shares with Jess. Dean hangs up saying he can’t wait to meet her._

Moonlight falls on his face, the night breeze doing nothing to warm him. Dean doesn’t know how long he stands there, distracted by his flashback, but the pain in his hands and feet remind him that he needs to get moving. He checks his pocket for weapons, but it seems they have taken his gun, and knives. Fishing out a small dagger from inside the sole of his shoe, and grateful that he keeps a small pouch of holy water in the inner pocket of his jeans, he makes his way downstairs.

The wood of the stairs seems to seep right into his knees, as if they have been waiting for him all this time. They don’t creak much, but they feel weak, and Dean takes each step as carefully as possible. His hand’s stopped bleeding around the piece of ripped-off t-shirt he wrapped around it, and his bruises burn a little less, along with his sprained foot.

It’s dark downstairs, with the little bit of light from outside providing some vision. Dean scanned what looked like the remains of the first floor, with a giant hole in the middle from which he could easily observe the ground floor. There was no one around, so Dean crouched down on the landing of the stairs, and watched them. There were three demons on the ground floor. Dean could see the silhouette of one by the back door; one had taken guard by the front door. He could hear the sound of footsteps on the first floor, and the sound of a door opening and closing.  
For a while he just sits at the staircase, breathing quietly but heavily. There is something about this house that keeps bothering him, something about the menacing walls, the broken windows, that makes him want to sink into the woodwork. The door keeps creaking.

_“Jess, this is my brother, Dean.”_

_They exchange pleasantries, shake hands, it’s late so Sam and Jess go to sleep in their room like a normal couple. Sam yawns and promises they’ll catch up in the morning as he shows him in the general direction of the couch they’ve unfolded into a bed, and covered in blankets and pillows. It looks like the cosiest thing Dean has ever seen, and another part of him turns into ash._

_Sam is happy, at peace, and God knows the kid deserves it. He can see the way he tenses up and straightens his back around Dean- out of habit from all that training, and how he immediately relaxes the moment Jess touches him. Dean wonders if he’ll ever find that, and if he does, whether he’ll deserve it._

_He remembers fighting with Sam in the kitchen while Jess was in the bathroom. Dean knows that his offer to make breakfast was a dead giveaway- Sam knows he cooks when he wants to avoid conversation. Sam picks at him from every angle, asking subtle questions like how long was the drive, is dad okay, how’s the hunting going, have you met a girl- I mean, of course, a boy would be just as fine, and Dean knows what he really means is how did you have the balls to come here, Dad would never let you, what’re you hiding from me, Dean?_

_“I think you’re in danger.” Dean finally blurts out as he flips the last pancake._

_“What?”_

_“I don’t know, it’s just this feeling. Call it a gut thing.”_

_“Does Dad know about this...gut thing?”_

_Funny thing, Dean knows Sam would ask that, but it still feels like betrayal. Still feels like he’ll never be more than an obedient soldier in anybody’s eyes._

_“Sure, he does.” and Sam leaves it at that._

Dean jolts into consciousness and tries to remember how to breathe. He’s never liked flashbacks. Once his vision is focused again,he gets back up on his feet. He’s poised to make it down the stairs when one of the demons at the ground floor, call out.

“Hey? Where’d those two go with the Winchester?”

The demon on the first floor says that he’ll go up and look. Dean curses and moves back up on the staircase, and waits behind the wall of the landing. He might get the element of surprise when the demon turns onto the top floor. He waits with baited breath, and the moment he hears footsteps, he jumps on top of him.

It’s a mess. He lands on top of him and manages to dig a hole in his eye, blinding him for a second. The other turns black as Dean gets up and tries to run. At the last step of the stairs the demon manages to get up and jump, screaming as he lands on Dean’s shoulders and tries to strangle him as they both topple over.

They miss the floor by a long shot and land straight on the ground floor. The demon’s lands on top of him and manages to kneel him in the stomach while he’s at it, the bastard, and Dean can feel that one of his hands won’t be functioning properly tonight but he’s not sure which one because they’re both stuck underneath his spine. He manages to push the demon a little further away and find the small pouch of holy water in the inside pocket of his jeans. Turns out it’s his left wrist, and shoulder too; but his right arm seems okay, and he throws holy water at any demon that tries to come close. He’s running out of plans fast as he tries to backtrack towards what he hopes is the general direction of the door, when he hears a crashing sound, and sees the silhouette of a man at the door. The demons are distracted for a second and Dean uses the opportunity to douse one with what’s left of the holy water and trip another and lock his arms behind his back. The intruder takes long steps forward, and Dean can see his coat rustling in the breeze he’d brought along. He takes out a long blade and stabs one of the demons, and he dies in a puff of black smoke and red static, and points a gun at the one holding a rifle. There’s a long silence in which Dean catches a glimpse of blue eyes, before he shoots the demon in the eye and immediately ducks and roll on the ground to avoid his shooting. He ends up near the guy as they take cover behind a table. He hands a gun from the pocket of his- is that a _trenchcoat_ \- pants and hands it to Dean. There’s three demons still left, and they are coming onto them fast.

“What the hell was that thing you used to kill the demon?” he asks.

“An angel blade.” he answers in a deep voice.

A what now.

Dean shakes his head and keeps his questions for later. “You wouldn’t happen to have another one, would you?”

“No.” he answers. “Cover me.” he says as he gets up.

“How?” Dean shouts after him but he’s already moving.

Finding nothing else, Dean grabs the table they were using as a shield and rams into the demon with the rifle, while they other guys stabs him. Dean hears a deafening, hissing noise as he slumps to the ground. Two demons to go.

“You take the one on the right.” Dean says as they stand back- to- back. Two against two- nice odds, he thinks. I’ve had worse.

“Take this,” the hunter- Dean presumes- says as he takes out a goddamn machete from his trenchcoat. Seems like that monstrous piece of clothing has its uses. Dean shrugs and takes it; it’s better than a wooden table.

“On two. One, two-“ he counts down and charges towards the demon, the small knife still lodged in his one eye. He keeps shooting as he moves towards him, getting him against the wall before he runs out of bullets. He tries to punch him but Dean parries, and kicks him in the groin. The demon bends over and Dean, not seeing any other alternative, cuts its head off. Black smoke rises from the wound and some more escapes from the demon’s mouth as its body falls towards the ground and head sickeningly rolls a bit further away. The black smoke escapes into a vent.

He stands there, panting, once again fully conscious of all his aching wounds. He makes a face at the mess all around them. He may be twenty-six, but he’s getting too old for this.

He wipes the machete off his jeans, now completely torn around the knees, and nods at his maybe-probably-hopefully accomplice, as he hands it back to him. Their eyes meet for the first time, and another pang of familiarity hits him. The man’s eyes widen as he says:

“Dean? De-Dean Winchester?”  
It finally falls in place: the deep voice, the eyes. Dean lets out a low gasp.

_“Cas?”_


	8. [ 8: of lost-and-found memories ]

Castiel Novak, fighting demons. Who would’ve thought. They both just stare at each other for a few moments. Dean’s throat feels dry, and his arms hang heavily at his sides. Should he hug him? They used to be close, but…

 

Before Dean could drown in his overthinking mind, Cas holds out his hand. Dean sighs in relief. Not too curt, not too formal.

 

“Cas-”

 

“It’s Castiel.”

 

Dean looks back up at him, and he knows the shock shows in his eyes, and he knows Cas- _Castiel-_ saw it too.

 

“I-I gave you that nickname.”

 

“You did. You gave me a nickname, and a friend- maybe more- and a great summer, but forgot to give me an explanation for- for just… _leaving_.”

 

Dean knows Cas is doing that thing where he tries to hide his emotions but his voice betrays him. He opens his mouth, closes it. He looks down at where they’re still holding hands, and then at the floor. His fingers try to curl around Cas’ but he drops the handshake. Cold air bites Dean’s palm. Before he could find the words he wanted to say, another voice interrupts them.

 

“Well, wouldn’t I hate to spoil such a lovely reunion.”

 

They both turn, looking around for the source. There’s no one at the door and the shadows seem empty. Cas hands him the machete and he grips it tight, ready to slice anything that moves. Then, from underneath the staircase, he sees a pair of yellow eyes, seemeing to draw the light from the room into them, like black holes. It steps into the light, except, it doesn’t feel like _light_ anymore.   

 

Cas doesn’t wait. It’s like he knows what to do. He starts chanting an exorcism. Dean, his head still reeling with adrenaline, moves towards the demon (at least, he hopes it’s a demon and nothing worse) but a flick of the wrist and they’re against the wall. One hand towards Cas’ throat to stop him from speaking, and he begins to move towards Dean.

 

“Dean Winchester. I never got to meet you the last time I was here. We were both so….busy.”

 

“Who are you?” Dean manages to speak through the crippling weight turning his legs to lead.

 

It doesn’t reply, just looks into Dean’s eyes. Something about the yellow in them reminds Dean of fire.

 

“Call me Azazel.” he says, gently putting a finger on Dean’s chest. His breath hitches in his throat, and his heart suddenly feels ready to, quite literally, tear itself out of his chest.

 

“Let’s see how big that heart of yours is, Righteous Man. I’ve been wanting to hold it for quite sometime.”

 

Just when Dean is starting to see spots in his vision, he hears shouting somewhere to his left. Azazel’s finger disconnects with a thud that sounds too much like something falling back in place in his chest. Dean falls to the ground, watching a fist-sized trail of blood on his shirt.

 

“Dean, run!” he hears Cas shout. He’s on his feet too, blood trickling down his palm, his hand hovering over some sort of sigil drawn in blood on the wall. He starts chanting something in a language Dean has never heard. Azazel growls, its vessel trying to resist the spell; black smoke rises from where its starts to burn. Dean starts to back away. Azazel makes a guttural, animalistic sound, and tries to reach for Dean, which only prompts Dean to back away further.

 

He looks at Cas, his eyes holding the question: _how’re you gonna get out_? By this time the entire house is shaking. Azazel screams. Black smoke fills the room, circling around like a mini tornado. The house, by some miracle, keeps standing.

 

The door is on Cas’ side of the room. Dean goes for it, and Cas joins him.

 

As he pushes open the charred door and runs out, it dawns upon him: his feet resounding as he dashes onto the driveway like he did when he was four, carrying a crying Sammy in his arms. He stops cold, and despite all instincts, looks back.

 

Azazel is standing on the porch, at the spot where his Mom used to stand and wave him goodbye. The broken windows, the smell of rust and ash. He can almost hear his Mom calling out from the kitchen that she made pie, or John asking him if he wanted to help Daddy in the garage. Azazel grins as black smoke pours out of his mouth and into the moonlit night.

 

“Welcome home, Dean.”


	9. [ 9: of distance ]

Dean remembers passing out in the garden he used to love tending to with his mom.

 

_“What do you mean, Sam is in danger?” is all Dean remembers Bobby saying before he ran out the door. He remembers driving straight to Stanford, excuses and alcohol and snack bars and missed calls all fading into cloudy nights._

 

This time Dean is riding shotgun. He wakes up groggily, his nose pushed against the window. For a few moments he doesn’t move, choosing to blankly stare out the window till his head starts to hurt and he gets up.

 

“My car….?”

 

“Found it abandoned a few blocks away from the house.”

 

Dean runs his hand over the dashboard, once more, trying to find himself in the only home he has ever known.

 

 _There’s a window in Sam’s living room and Dean finds himself staring out of it, hoping to hear the roar of his Dad’s truck and see him coming up the stairs ready to thrash Dean for coming to meet Sam, to fight with them, to remind them why they hunt—noise, some kind of anger; Dean’s not used to silence, to this…. this_ peace _he sees all around him but can’t feel._

 

His chest aches all over, and his foot feels swollen inside his shoe, but otherwise Dean assesses the damage to be minimal. He looks to his right, and- a part of him half expecting it all to have turned out to be a dream, and Dad was driving and Sammy snoring in the back- and sees Cas driving the car, both hands on the steering and staring straight ahead. Dean grunts.

 

“Who gave you permission to drive her?”

 

“You did, in senior year. You said I was the kind of friend you’d trust with your ‘Baby’. That was two days before you disappeared.”

 

Dean rubs a hand over his face in a non-committal fashion.

 

_He remembers meeting Sam’s friends. He mixed holy water in all their drinks and managed to test for silver. It was all going okay, till Brady came in. He’s charming, young, cocky, oldest of the bunch. He flirts with Dean all night, doesn’t touch a drink. Finally, Dean winks at him as he makes his way to the bathroom. He follows. It takes a bit of making out (which Brady turned out to be surprisingly good at) to manage to hustle some holy water on him. His eyes turn black and he steps back as if burned._

_That’s the last thing Dean remembers._  

 

“So you’re a hunter now.” he states in a flat voice.

 

“For the past few years, yes.”

 

“Wait, how long?”

 

“I dropped out of college in freshman year. Do the math.”

 

Dean looks at Cas, trying to look for a hint of remorse, regret, sadness, _anything,_ but he keeps his face blank. Dean feels his stomach churn. This is not the Cas he knew. The Cas he used to know smiled so much it hurt Dean’s jaws to look at him –hell, in the few months they’d known each other, Dean had pretty much _memorised_ the shape of his teeth. They were shaped like the swell of his lips, like the marks on his neck that Dean hid from John.

 

“What happened?” he finds himself asking, despite knowing that the _one thing_ you never ask a hunter is which one of their loved ones died at the hands of a monster, and left them at war with a world they never knew existed.

 

Cas doesn’t answer. They drive on in silence.

 

**_***_ **

 

“Dean, is this the Cas you used to tell me aboout?”

 

Dean sneaks a look at him They way he looks nowhere but the road, a constant frown on his face, looking as if feels out of place but is trying not to show it.

 

“He used to be.” he says, as he hangs up.

 

Dean is both surprised and not-surprised when he realizes Cas is driving them to Bobby’s house. Once he clambers out of his car, trying not to show how ready he feels to fall apart, he is met with Bobby’s arms around him in a way that feels somewhere between a shove and a hug; followed by an unexpected slap in the face.

 

“Bobby, what the hell?”

 

“You idjit! Roaming around like an aimless puppy- do you have a death wish or are you just losing your mind?”

 

“Both!” Dean shouts, and there is an awkward silence, in which Cas mutters something about going inside but Bobby stops him.

 

“Ya ain’t goin anywhere, boy. I know you two got history, some good history, and this dumbass right here needs a little reminder of all the people who care about him because it looks like one day his stupidity took his self-worth for a swim and _drowned_ it!”

 

Cas opens his mouth but closes it, thinking better of it. He shuffles his feet and looks towards the ground. Dean tries to look anywhere but in his direction. Bobby doesn’t seem to give a fuck.

 

“Listen here, Dean. I know you’re hurtin’- and I know you think you hide it really well, but don’t think you can fool me. You think I don’t see how you collapse in on yourself every now and then? You think I don’t hear your voice crack on the phone? I’m old but I ain’t blind, and I see that you’re breaking inside, but Dean, I also see a young, strong man in you. A guy with a purpose. You know what’s sad? It should be your Dad telling you this, but he ain’t here, so get your head out of your ass and get to work, you hear?”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

Bobby startles at that, and something in his eyes changes. He’s never called Bobby ‘sir’ – he only calls John that- it was just instincitve. But Bobby draws back, sighs, and for a second Dean is taken aback to see something in him he has never quite seen. 

 

 “I ain’t your father, son.” he says.

 

 _Yes, you are,_ is what Dean wants to say, but instead he replies: “At least you’re trying to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update to anyone who's reading this trash xD my internet is my worst enemy :/ also, if you spot any errors feel free to let me know, cause this stuff is not completely beta-ed :)


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